


The Nightmare Song

by leavinghope



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Kiss, Friendship/Love, M/M, Pining Sherlock, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 05:23:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8476987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leavinghope/pseuds/leavinghope
Summary: John Watson is back at Baker Street again, in a quest to pick up the shattered remains of his life. Sherlock Holmes is there to help build the fragile pieces of the two of them together into something stronger.





	1. Overture

John Watson looked around his room. The narrow bed, the plain curtains, the single tall unembellished wardrobe. It was very much as it had been when he had first moved into 221B Baker Street, grateful to escape his cheap bedsit and follow Sherlock Holmes around London. But that was years ago, and he had never expected to live here again. He'd dreamed of and wished to return, though, oh yes.

John sighed.

He knew a part of him had never truly left Baker Street and his beautiful, maddening flatmate behind. But Sherlock had left first, devastating John. Their time apart forced John to harden his heart and resolve never to allow Sherlock to regain his power in John's life again. And so John chose to ignore his nagging doubts about Mary:the fact he did not care he had not been introduced to some of her friends or knew details of her early life, the fact he did not miss her while away on cases with Sherlock, the fact he slept next to her while dreaming of his life with Sherlock. Instead John had clung to Mary like an anchor, the only thing holding him in place and preventing him from running back to Sherlock.

And those decisions led John back to Baker Street, an angry betrayed husband who was never married and a grieving parent who had never fathered a child. So many times he could have changed his mind. The night Sherlock had interrupted his half-hearted marriage proposal or the following morning when he went along with the notion. The night Sherlock dragged him from the bonfire or when they'd been caught on a train car with a ticking bomb. Over the dinner where they couldn't stop laughing about the elephant in the room or through the tension John suspected was not one-sided over oscillations on the pavement. The stag night. Hell, the ceremony itself. But John was stubborn, to a fault, it seemed.

He walked over to the bed, his bed once again, and threw his duffel bag onto it. _Might as well get this started._

In retrospect, it may have been the forceful slamming of the wardrobe drawers that drew Sherlock's attention. Mired deep in regretful thoughts, he did not hear Sherlock climb the stairs.

"Do you need any help settling in?"

The familiar, deep voice caused John to turn to his open door, where Sherlock was standing just outside. Like John, he had changed into nightclothes, somehow looking elegant and very young in his ratty pajama bottoms and maroon silk dressing gown.

"Thanks, but I've got it under control." John waved towards his bed. "Feel free to sit."

Sherlock clasped his hands behind him and rocked on his heels. "No. I don't mean to disturb you. I just wanted to make sure you had what you need. I know the bedding is freshly laundered. Mrs. Hudson and I tried to anticipate everything, of course, but…"

John interrupted. "Sherlock, it's fine. Truly."

"Okay. Good."

John sat down on this bed, leaning back on his elbows. "Thanks for dinner. It was nice to be back at Angelo's with you."

Sherlock shrugged off John's words, although John could tell he was pleased. "There is still some tiramisu in the fridge."

"You mean you didn't eat it all?"

"Thought I'd try to be a good flatmate. At least until you get used to me again."

"Getting used to Sherlock Holmes. Don't know if there is any such thing."

The two men smiled at each other.

Sherlock's voice was low and soft as he said, "I know it probably isn't appropriate for me to say it out loud, but I'm glad you're home."

John said, "Some times it feels like I never left."

"Oh, I can assure you, you were gone."

John bit back his angry rejoinder, that Sherlock had left first, because the last year had taught him Sherlock sincerely was sorry for any pain he had caused John. And it was becoming increasingly clear to John that Sherlock had suffered, not only during his faked death, but also when he had returned to an empty flat with scars John never asked about, but haunted his dreams. The initial rush of anger turned into affection, tinged with guilt.

"Well, maybe it isn't the right thing for me to say so soon, but I'm glad to be here. It means more than I can say that you took me back in."

"You were always welcome, John."

"I know. It's made this whole mess easier…" John trailed off.

"But?"

John let his head fall back, facing the ceiling. "It's still a lot to process."

"Yes." The tone of Sherlock's voice invited John to confide his thoughts, no matter what they were.

"I mean, it's one thing to learn she had secrets about her past. Don't we all?" John sat up straight and ran his left hand through his hair.

Sherlock nodded his head and hummed encouragingly.

"But she lied, over and over again. She hurt you, which I never truly forgave as much as I may have pretended to. I hope you realize that. I hated her for shooting you. But I went back because there was a child. A child! How could she have lied to me about being a father? And then to find out she was planted in my life to begin with…" John took a deep breath and focused down upon his shoes."And all I can think to myself is, am I really so difficult to love?"

"I have not found you to be so."

John looked up at Sherlock, who had a sad, wistful smile on his face. John tried to speak, but his barely formed thoughts stuck in his throat. Sherlock shook his head, as if to forestall any discussion. "Please let me know if you need anything. Good night, John."

John forced out a whispered "Good night" as Sherlock closed the door behind him.

John lay silently on his bed for a long time, Sherlock's words echoing through his head. _I have not found you to be so._ John knew Sherlock cared for him deeply, more than anyone else. A fact that never failed to astonish John, considering all the two had been through together. But Sherlock's words hinted at more than friendship, and John reeled at the possibility of a reality he'd dreamed about for years, yet never quite fully admitted to himself.

_And I'm in no position to think about it now._ John felt himself chaotically adrift after the events with Mary, and now Sherlock was his shelter from the storm of his life.

John forced himself back up into a sitting position, shaking his head in bemusement. _I'm looking to Sherlock for calm, now. How did I get to this point?_

He once again busied himself by putting his few belongings away. They filled only a duffel bag and a single suitcase. John had trained himself from a young age to not get attached to material things, but even he was surprised at how little he had accumulated in his time with Mary. Several books, a few new items of clothing Mary had picked out and he had never really liked, a new coffee mug to replace the one he'd left behind at Baker Street.

Which he had used just earlier in the day. Sherlock had known he was returning, of course. They'd discussed it when Mary had been detained and the decision had been made for John to move back after the placement of the child had been settled.

Tears threatened as John thought of the baby girl who he'd so quickly fallen in love with, all chubby cheeks and big blue eyes. But she'd been as much of a lie as Mary, and as tempted as he was to raise her as his own, he believed reuniting her with her real father was the best choice.

John would never forget the pain he felt when Mycroft finally reassured him the father was a good man, as much of a dupe in Mary's machinations as he was. He could not bring himself to hand his little girl over, though. Mycroft arrived at what had once been John and Mary's flat to retrieve the child, and John collapsed on this couch, hunched in despair. Sherlock sat silently at his side. Sherlock, who had offered to help raise the child. Who had supported John in the most difficult decision of his life, who had allowed a single tear to fall as he ordered a takeaway and cared for John through that first long night.

And by the end of the night, John had agreed to eventually return to Baker Street. At the memory of Sherlock's muted, yet delighted, reaction, he was overcome with gratitude and ready to face his next task. He wiped his eyes and jogged down the stairs to the loo. Sherlock's bedroom door was closed. John was amazed he had already turned in for the evening, but glad Sherlock would not see him in such an emotional state again. As he brushed his teeth, he inspected his reflection in the mirror. Gaunt, haggard, with the ridiculous hairstyle Mary assured made him look younger. _But I'm not ashamed of my years. I'm getting a haircut this weekend._ He was surprisedby how relieved he felt at having a simple goal he could accomplish, solely in his control.

_On that note…_ John returned upstairs to his room and once again looked around. Still so devoid of personal touches, it did not look occupied. Unlike the sitting room, where his chair was again opposite Sherlock's. And just that afternoon he'd been seated there, as Sherlock handed him his old mug full of tea while the ratty Union Jack pillow once again supported his back and his old blanket cradled his neck.

John did have personal belongings, and they all belonged at Baker Street. Much like he now knew for certain he belonged there and nowhere else.

As he crawled under the duvet and thumped his pillow, John knew sleep would be a long time coming tonight.


	2. Symphony

John woke up gasping for breath. His ears rang, though from the shots fired in the dream or a shout he'd made in reality, John did not know. The visuals of the nightmare fled quickly, fading as fast as any love he'd had for Mary, but his physical response lingered. Years of therapy with Ella Thompson paid off as he immediately launched into calming exercises. His breathing slowed, and his pulse evened out. The drying sweat on his skin and vest chilled him, though, and he knew sleep would be elusive for the next hour or so. His stomach growled, and John couldn't help but chuckle, his body's resilience always surprising him. As he swung his legs over the side of the bed, a familiar melody floated up the stairs. Sherlock was playing his violin. John smiled, the nightmare continuing to withdraw from him, swept away by the music of his best friend.

After quietly padding down the stairs and using the loo, John grabbed the leftover tiramisu from the fridge. The plastic fork Sherlock had used to eat his half was still in the container. _Oh, why the hell not?_ After all they'd been through together, using the same fork no longer seemed as inappropriately intimate as it once might have been. John took a heaping bite as he walked to the sitting room.

John nudged his chair slightly closer to the fireplace, where a steady, crackling fire burned brightly, casting a cozy glow over the otherwise unlit room. After a few minutes, the warmth of the fire and of the music washing over John allowed him to relax, forcing the nightmare to finally relinquish its hold.

Sherlock did not acknowledge John's presence, but rather slightly swayed with the music until he reached the end of the song. Sherlock placed his violin back in its stand and swiped a finger of mascarpone from the remainder of John's tiramisu as he sat down in his chair. The two men shared a few moments of companionable silence before John finally said, "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For playing _The Nightmare Song_."

" _The Nightmare Song_? Is that what you call it?"

"Well, you always play it when I have nightmares, so yeah."

"As prosaic as your case titles." Sherlock concluded with an exaggerated sigh.

"Fine, fine. What's it called?" When Sherlock continued not to answer, John teased him. "What, is it one of those fancy etudes or movements with all the numbers that an idiot like me wouldn't understand?"

"It's one of my own compositions." Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his chair, then strode over to the window to look out over Baker Street. John waited, appreciating Sherlock's backlit silhouette, the grace with which he always moved. _Some things never change, thank goodness._

Eventually Sherlock spoke. "I call it _A Lullaby for John_."

Warmth filled John's chest as he grinned. "Really? Since when?"

"Since always, John."

John heard the forced exasperation in Sherlock's tone, what he construed to be an attempt to hide uncharacteristic embarrassment. Not for the first time, John felt a rush of love for his friend. But perhaps for the first time, he allowed himself to fully recognize the depth of loyalty and love that Sherlock felt for him. John recalled the first time he heard his lullaby, a mere few nights after moving into Baker Street. It came as no shockto John that Sherlock would have been aware of his nightmares early on, but that he'd composed a song to help John through his rough nights so soon into their friendship, well, that was something else entirely.He cleared his throat before he could say, "It has always been appreciated, but it was even more lovely than ever tonight."

"Really?" Sherlock seemed unusually gratified with John's praise, a small smile playing around his lips and a confident set to his shoulders.

"Yes." John thought of how much he'd missed Sherlock's violin playing over the past few years, since his fall and his return.

"Good." Sherlock absentmindedly placed his hand over a spot near his heart.Still looking out the window, he said, "I was worried I was rusty. It's hurt too much to play since…"

John was on his feet before he knew it. Sherlock turned to John as he approached, stepping back cautiously. John raised his hand in a calming motion, and then used it to cover the hand over Sherlock's heart.He shook his head. "I'm a doctor.In Afghanistan, I operated on injuries like this, countless times, and yet it never occurred to me that you'd be in too much pain to play. I am so, so sorry. She hurt you, she robbed you of your music, and I still went back to her. How do you not hate me?"

"I could ask the same of you."

At John's scoff of disbelief, Sherlock pressed. "Have I not hurt you deeply? Have I not begged for your forgiveness and received it? Did the woman you love more than anyone in the world not deserve the same chance you gave your best friend?"

"You're wrong."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "About what?"

John reached up with his free hand to clasp the back of Sherlock's neck and drew him down until their foreheads touched, eliciting a gasp from Sherlock. "I did not love her more than anyone in the world. There is one I love more. Above all else, really." John sighed at the relief he felt, the truth of this words lifting a weight from his shoulders he did not know had been there. _For how long? How long have I tried to hide from this?_

"John?" Sherlock's voice quaveredwith rare confusion.

John felt Sherlock's warm, tiramisu-scented breath against his lips and was overwhelmed by the urge to follow its path back to Sherlock's trembling mouth. _Not yet, though. It's time for me to be brave._

"You, Sherlock. I love you, more than I've ever loved anyone."

Sherlock made no response, but did not pull away. Before the silence stretched uncomfortably long, John said, "It's always been you, Sherlock. Didn't you know that?"

"No." Sherlock paused. "How was I supposed to know when you, yourself, did not?"

John laughed. "Can't find fault with your logic. Sorry it took me so long to figure it out."

"I'm sure I did not make it easy for you."

A series of memories flickered through John's mind. Shared laughter in the back of cabs. Late night takeaways. Shy glances of approval. Being pulled from a bonfire. A heartfelt speech before gathered friends and loved ones. "Actually, you did. I just didn't want to admit it." As Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, John interrupted, "What about you, hmm?"

"Me?"

John leaned back to better see Sherlock's face.The many conflicting emotions John felt were reflected there. Sadness. Wistfulness. Fear. Desire. Any doubts John still had about Sherlock's feelings evaporated away. "How long have you known how you felt about me?"

And Sherlock must have seen John's certainty, because he took a deep breath and responded with complete sincerity. "When I looked at you and realized you shot the cabbie, I felt a jolt of something run through me. Recognition of a kindred spirit, I thought. Later, though, I realized it was likely love." Sherlock gnawed on his lower lip. "That scene played through my mind when I watched you by my grave, hating to see you in so much pain. It took leaving you to force me to admit I loved you and had always loved you." Sherlock tentatively placed his hands on John's waist. "And that I would always love you, no matter what happened."

John felt hope flower inside of him for the first time since he'd found Sherlock on the floor of Magnussen's office, seemingly a lifetime ago. But it wasn't so long ago that there weren't other emotions there with the hope: anger, betrayal, resentment. He knew he wasn't ready to embark on such an important relationship. "But I can't do this now, you understand? I'm too angry and confused about everything that's happened, and I don't want to take it out on you, on us."

Sherlock pulled away slightly to look at John. "I don't understand what that means."

"Give me a chance to go back to Ella. Talk things over, set my head straight. I want us to start out with a proper date, Sherlock Holmes. Not consoling me in the middle of the night over flashbacks of my horrible choices. Does that make sense?"

"No."

"Sherlock…"

"No, it does not make sense to me. I don't want some idealized version of you, John. I just want you."

"Well, maybe I think you deserve better than the man I am right now."

"There is none better."

"You really believe that, don't you?"

"Of course." Sherlock sounded outraged John would think otherwise.

"I want to be the man you see in me. But I know I'm not easy to be with right now."

"There is no where I'd rather be than at your side." Sherlock leaned down and nuzzled John's nose with his own. It was simultaneously the sweetest and most intimate action John had ever experienced. He swallowed regret over his decision to take things slow and said, "I'll call Ella first thing in the morning."

"Or you could leave a message tonight in case you oversleep?"Sherlock began to giggle before he even finished his question.

John joined in. "A bit eager?"

"Yes." Sherlock sighed, tears suddenly gleaming in his eyes. "John, I never thought you'd give me a chance."

"Hey." John used his best captain's voice to make sure he had Sherlock's full attention. "I'm not giving us a chance. I know this is right. I know we will work. I have no doubt in my mind that the two of us will thrive together. But I just want to start it off not angry and depressed anymore. It isn't that I think I'll ruin us. I just want us to start out with you not having to treat me like a minefield."

Sherlock appeared dazed by John's confidence."Take all the time you need, John. I'll still be here. I was resigned to waiting forever, so…"

John halted Sherlock's words with a kiss. Dry, closed-mouth, sweetly firm and anything but chaste.

"Oh," was all Sherlock said after John pulled away.

"Oh," John playfully mocked him.

"What was that?"

"The first of many kisses, I hope."

"There has to be a second to make sure that was a first and not an only."

"Alright, you sly bastard." John followed up with a quick kiss. "You satisfied now?"

"No," said Sherlock, glancing at John through his lashes.

So this was Sherlock Holmes in love - playful, affectionate, funny, seductive. _Oh, I'm truly done for._

An unexpected yawn overtook John, to which Sherlock responded, "Are you bored of me already?"

"As much as I'd like to tease you and say yes, it's the adrenaline crash taking over." John took a hesitant step back and captured Sherlock's hands with his own, not wanting to be apart just yet, but not trusting himself to be too close. He immediately ached with the loss of Sherlock's warmth.

And Sherlock, like he had so often in the past year, understood what John needed. "You should get some rest."

"Yeah. You, too."

"No, I don't think…" Sherlock trailed off, unusual for him.

"What?"

"I'll stay up awhile longer." He reached out and ran his fingers through John's hair, an expression of wonder on his face. "I don't want to lose this feeling just yet."

John mirrored the gesture, and the moment his fingers corded through tussled curls, Sherlock leaned into the pressure, and John's heart raced in response. "I don't think we're in danger of losing this feeling any time soon."

Sherlock nodded. Then he parted from John with obvious reluctance and walked over to his violin stand. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all. " John took a deep breath and forced himself towards the stairs. "Good night, Sherlock. I'll see you in the morning."

"Good night, my John."

John paused at the foot of the stairs. "And play something a little more upbeat while I try to fall asleep, okay?"

Sherlock smiled shyly back at John. "I must admit, I have another composition I started during my time away."

"What's it called?"

" _John._ "

John felt himself blush for the first time he could recall since his teens. "I'd love to hear it."

"It starts off somewhat sad and wistful."

John melted at the apology in Sherlock's tone. He shrugged reassuringly. "That makes sense."

"And it isn't finished."

The golden glow of the fire brought out the auburn highlights in Sherlock's curls. John thought, _How have I never noticed them before. I have so much to learn about this man, with this man._ "I hope it will never come to an end."

Sherlock raised his violin to his shoulder. "I think the next movement will be happier."

And John looked at Sherlock, standing in the middle of the sitting room of their home, an expression of honest, unrestrained love on his face, and he felt complete for the first time in his life. "Oh, Sherlock, we will be."


End file.
